


to have both world enough and time

by luftballons99



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Ash Lynx Lives, Eventual Smut, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Friendship, Getting Together, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Pining, Rating May Change, Romance, Spoilers, mangaverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-09-23 22:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17088638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons99/pseuds/luftballons99
Summary: “The whole cabin shakes as the plane lifts off, and Ash feels fluttery and buoyant like the kites he and Griff used to fly in Cape Cod. He presses his forehead against the glass of his small oval window, watching New York shrink until Ash could cup Central Park in his palm and let the Hudson cascade between his fingers, Lady Liberty sitting on his thumb.He cranes his neck to keep looking even as the plane pulls him further and further away from his city. He lets it go, places a hand over his chest pocket, over Eiji's letter, over his heart.It's lonely leaving home, but staying without Eiji would be even lonelier.Ash can't wait to see him again.”Hemingway's leopard finally comes back down.





	1. we are beginning

**Author's Note:**

> _Had we but world enough and time,_   
>  _This coyness, lady, were no crime._   
>  _We would sit down, and think which way_   
>  _To walk, and pass our long love’s day..._
> 
> -“To His Coy Mistress,” Andrew Marvell

_Ash —_

_I am very worried because I haven’t seen you and I don’t know if you are okay._

_You said to me before, “We live in different worlds.” But I am not sure if that is true. We are from different countries, and our skin and eyes are different color. But so what? We are friends. Isn’t that enough? What else do we need?_

_I am very happy I came to America. I made many friends here. Above all… I met you, Ash._

_You asked me many times if you scare me. But I never felt scared of you, not even once. From the first time I met you. Actually, I always felt that you are hurt, much more than me— that your soul is wounded._

_I know that you are much smarter than me, and bigger, and stronger— but even so— I always wanted to protect you. Funny, isn’t it? But what did I want to protect you from?_

_I think I wanted to protect you from your future. Because your fate was sweeping you away, like a flood._

_Do you remember telling me about the leopard in that Hemingway book? He died at the top of the mountain, and you said he knew he will never go back down._

_But I said you are not a leopard, and that you can change your future. It’s true, Ash. You can change your fate._

_You are not alone, Ash. I am with you. My soul is always with you._

_Sayonara, America. Sayonara, New York…_

_But I’m not saying “sayonara” to you, Ash. Because this isn’t goodbye. I know we’ll see each other again someday—_

_You are my best friend, Ash._

  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  


There’s a quiet hum that Ash isn't sure is real or just the incessant buzzing of his own beehive-mind coming awake.

Actually, he's not even sure he really is awake, and it's not so much that he doesn't want to try opening his eyes to check, it's that he feels like he doesn't even have any. It's as if he's floating, incorporeal, untethered. Humming through time and space with no up or down, past or present, and no self to experience it.

He has to fight for just enough consciousness to wonder if he’s dead. And there's a moment - brief, but real - where he considers the idea a relief. An escape. A happy accident that would make all the gang wars and gunshots just fade away like frost in the warmth of the New York City public library. You can't have trauma if your brain shuts down. Your heart can't break if it stops beating.

“You're not dead, Ash,” he hears someone say; a ripple through the static. A bed materializes under Ash's back, a blanket over his front. The humming gets louder and when he cracks his eyes open, he sees that no, it's not his imagination, but the whirring of a crash cart with electrical equipment he can't make sense of on standby at his bedside. “You’re okay. Not that you didn't give me a goddamn heart attack when you called.”

Ash's stinging eyes find the direction of the voice and blink wetly.

Max smiles at him tiredly from across the room, slumped in a chair near the door. He runs a hand through his hair.

“It's good to see you, kiddo,” he says.

Ash places a hand on his forehead, noticing the IV drip connected to his inner elbow, and feels his bottom lip quiver.

“Max,” he whispers hoarsely, shutting his eyes as the legs of a chair squeak across the floor, accompanied by heavy footsteps, “I'm alive.”

Max sets the chair down at Ash's bedside and sits in it, putting a hand on Ash's shoulder.

“Your injury wasn't even that bad, compared to some of the other crap you've been through,” Max tells him. His voice is rough and his eyes are glassy, like he just woke up from a restless nap. “But you'd lost a lot of blood by the time you made it to the hospital.” He squeezes Ash's shoulder. “You just barely managed to give the nurse my contact info before passing out. D'you remember?”

Ash furrows his brow, faded images appearing in his mind and slipping away like leaves in the wind.

“How long have I been out?” he asks, eyes wide, and then, “How's Eiji? Is he back in Japan?”

Max blinks, caught off-guard, and smiles.

“He and Shunichi arrived this morning,” he says.  Ash feels relief flood him. Eiji is gone, but he's alive and he's safe. “I haven't gotten the chance to tell them what happened yet. You've been passed out since yesterday and I - “ Max trails off, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I can't tell you how relieved I am to hear your voice.” He rubs the back of his neck, scratches the stubble on his chin. “And, uh, I'm glad that you had someone call me before you went under.”

Ash breathes deeply, his wound pinching uncomfortably at the movement. He grins crookedly. “Well, _someone_ needs to pay my hospital bill,” he jokes.

Max takes his hand away from Ash's shoulder like it burned him. “You little shit,” he laughs, incredulous, “aren't you still sitting on a pile of Golzine's money?”

Ash laughs, too, ignoring the pain in his side. “Fuck that old dead bastard,” he hears himself say, and starts laughing harder. Max joins him, having to prop himself up on his elbows on the side of Ash's hospital bed. All the drugs, the near-death experiences, the loss, and the burdens of the past year and a half spill out of them in buckets, emptying Ash until he feels light. Max rubs mirth from his eyes. Ash clutches his stomach. The war is over. It's like he's laughing for the first time.

Max fills him in on everything he missed while he was asleep. Ash's stab wound is deep, but the knife didn't pierce any of his vital organs. He lost a lot of blood, but Max was there in time to donate his own. The skin surrounding Ash’s suters is inflamed, but it's nothing some ointment can't fix. There's a lot of ‘buts’ in his recap, a lot of almost-disasters. This was a close one.

“The doctors were a little worried you weren't gonna make it, at first,” Max tells him sternly, the way parents do when their kids do something dangerous; it means, _You scared me, so don't pull that shit again._ Ash picks at a loose thread in his blanket. It's not like he _wanted_ to get stabbed. “Told me you kept saying, ‘Help, you have to help, I can't die, I have to see Eiji.’”

Ash whips his head up, cheeks coloring.

Max grins. “That's when I knew you'd be okay.”

Ash places a shaking hand on his forehead, suddenly dizzy with memories. The future speeding toward him like a bullet, the past coming back like a lieutenant’s knife. Eiji kneeling on the hospital floor, reaching for him. _Forever_ instead of _Just for now._ _We’ll see each other again_ instead of _This is goodbye_. Hemingway's leopard limping down the mountain after all. Eiji’s letter, Eiji's clumsy handwriting, Eiji's accent when he says Ash's name. It all comes back to Eiji, like a compass pointing North. Eiji, Eiji, _Eiji_.

Ash closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“I love him.” The words unlock a door in his heart that will not be bolted shut again; never again. Tears roll down his cheeks. He doesn't care that he's crying. He doesn't care that he's outing himself. He just cares about Eiji, lodged like an arrow in Ash's heart and yet a million miles away.

Ash's feelings escape out of his throat, but have nowhere to go. “I love him so much.”

A moment passes, and then Max's big hand finds Ash's. He squeezes it tight and secure.

“I know you do, kid,” he exhales softly, palm warm. Ash sobs, counting himself lucky that his love for Eiji reached _someone_. “I know.”

Ash covers his eyes with his hand, eyelashes wet against his palm. “I can't be away from him,” he confesses thickly. Max gathers him into his arms. “I have to be with Eiji.“

“Ash,” Max interrupts him gently, rubbing circles on his back, “They gave me your stuff when I got here. I have Eiji's letter and the plane ticket he gave you.”

Ash's breath stops.

“Listen, you missed the flight, and you need to stay here,” Max gestures to the sterile hospital room around them, “for at least another week so you can heal up.”

Ash shakes his head. “I need to - “

“ _But_ ,” Max cuts him off, raising a silencing, fatherly finger, “with all that money you stole, I'm sure getting another ticket won't be a problem.”

Ash rubs his cheek dry. “Yeah, but a _week_ ,” he rushes out, “That's - I can't afford - “

“You can afford anything you damn well please,” Max says firmly, grabbing Ash's shoulder. His face is stony, but his eyes are pleading. “Trust me, Izumo isn't going anywhere. Eiji isn't going anywhere.”

“How do you know that?” Ash demands instinctively. _He already went halfway across the world._ “I've wasted too much time in this fucking room already.”

“So what are you gonna do, Ash?” Max sighs, impatient and tired. “You think I'm gonna let you stumble onto a transcontinental flight with a goddamn bloody hole in your side?” He scoffs. “You think airport security is gonna let you? You think Eiji wants you to tear yourself apart just to see him again?”

“You don’t understand,” Ash grits out through his teeth, seething.

“No,” Max says curtly, “I understand perfectly. You're 18 and you're in love and you think that makes you invincible. You wanna dive into this headfirst without having taken a breath. Well, guess what?”

Ash’s body is weak, but his glare isn't. Max glares right back.

“You're done, Ash. It's over.”

Confusion settles in the crease between Ash's brows.

Max’s eyes shine, his scowl softening into something else; something vulnerable.

“You're free,” he says, voice breaking. “Get the hell out of New York, but let the scars it gave you _heal_ first, okay?” He holds his weary head in his hands. “You don't need to rush. You have all the time in the world. For God's sake, use some of it to get better.”

Ash's face softens, the space behind his eyes tingling warmly like it always does before he cries.

Max swallows audibly, and then he says, “Please.”

Ash slumps against his pillow, looking up at the ceiling blankly.

“Fuck,” he breathes, defeated. “Okay.”

He hears Max exhale in relief and is quick to add, “But I need a favor.”

Max nods, taking Ash's hand again, squeezing with his sturdy fingers. “Okay.”

Ash squeezes back and turns his head, meeting Max's eyes, determined. “I need you to get me pen and paper,” he says, “and I need you to run a few errands for me.”

The corner of Max's mouth quirks up. “That's two favors,” he points out.

Ash’s face is stony. “So you'll do it?”

Max stands with a grunt, stretching his arms over his head, joints cracking. He scrubs a large hand over Ash's hair and grins.

“Anything for my son,” he says.

Ash grins back.

  


 

* * *

 

  


“What do you want me to say? I have no idea where he is.”

Sing clicks his tongue, kicking an empty beer can across the room. It bounces off the wall with a metallic _cling_ and rolls to a stop by Alex's feet.

_Fuck._

Alex sets down his poker cards, sighing. “Why's it so urgent for you to see him, anyway? He's only been gone a few days.” He rests his chin in his hand as Bones and Kong nod their agreement from around the table, looking at Sing questioningly.

Sing averts his eyes, arms crossing over his puffed-out chest. This is one of those moments where he has to make a tough decision; one of those moments that make him question why he stepped up to the plate after Shorter died. Convenient lies or the uncomfortable truth.

Sing only _just_ settled his beef with Ash, and Lao just had to go and fucking ruin it - _and_ get his ass handed to him in the process. As soon as he gets back on his feet, Sing _swears_ he's gonna put the fear of God in him. Now it's up to Sing to stitch their patchwork peace back together, and he doesn't need Ash's gang getting tangled up in the thread. Telling them what went down between Ash and Lao would just complicate things.

Still, this is the third time Sing has come around to ask Alex if he's seen him. He must look desperate.

“It's been four days since Eiji left and now Ash suddenly dropped off the face of the Earth,” he points out, grasping at straws. “You don't think that's a little weird?”

Alex scrunches his brow, thinking. Bones tilts his head to one side.

“You think he's, like, depressed?” he asks blankly.

Sing bites the inside of his cheek. _I think he might be dead._

Kong sighs, resting his chin in his hand. “I sure am,” he laments. Bones's body sags as he leans his head on Kong's shoulder in solidarity.

“Look, Sing, it's cute that you're worried - “ Alex starts, but Sing cuts him off, bristling.

“Watch your fucking mouth, white boy,” he barks viciously, “I could have all of Chinatown on your ass with a snap of my fingers, if I wanted.”

Alex blinks and startles back in his chair, raising his hands defensively. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, looking genuinely hurt, and underneath his frustration Sing feels a little guilty. His expression doesn’t show it.

“Whatever,” he spits, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, “If you don't know where he is, I'm outta here.”

He grabs the rusty doorknob of this shitty, hole-in-the-wall apartment and swings the door open with every intention of sprinting down the sidewalk and running until his legs and lungs burn, just so he feels like he's doing _something_ , but a man on the other side blocks his way.

Instinctively, his hand finds the dragon-fang in his pocket.

“Who the hell are you?” he demands, glaring. Something about this guy is familiar, but Sing’s memory is foggy and it never hurts to be cautious.

The man puts his hands up and takes a step back, smiling sheepishly. “Uh,” he says dumbly, “I'm looking for Alex?”

“He ain't here,” Sing says reflexively, beginning to shut the door. He hears the cautionary cock of a gun behind him and feels a hint of relief that someone here has a piece, just in case this guy tries anything funny -

Like jamming his foot between the door and its frame, for example.

“Hold on,” he says quickly. Sing scowls at him, jerking the door so it squeezes his foot harder. The man winces, lowering a hand to reach into his jacket. “I have - “

Sing's hand darts out and grabs the man by the wrist. “Not another move,” he warns, pulling out his dragon-fang and holding the blade dangerously close to the guy's face.

“It's just a letter,” the man rushes out, panicked, and leans away from the blade pointed at his chin. “Ash sent me!”

Sing blinks, taken aback. “You've seen Ash?” he blurts, letting go of the man's wrist. “Is he okay?”

The man chuckles. “Trust me, you don't need to worry about him,” he says placatingly.

Sing's nostrils flare. “Why does everyone - I'm not _worried_ ,” he argues hotly, remembering too late that he doesn't need to justify himself to this guy, whoever he is. The man ignores him - the only reaction more annoying than if he'd challenged Sing - peering over his head to where the others are sitting.

“Ah, is that Alex back there?” he asks, a friendly smile on his face.

Sing huffs, defeated and mad about it. “You got someone here to see you,” he calls over his shoulder, stepping aside and letting the man in. He watches Alex switch the safety of his gun on and shove it down the back of his pants, squinting at the visitor. Bones and Kong set their weapons down, too, but their eyes are suspicious. It's easy to forget they're not morons, sometimes, but their quick reflexes to the man's presence are a good reminder.

“Ash wanted me to give you something,” the man says, slowly reaching into his jacket again and pulling out a white envelope. He offers it to Alex, who takes it hesitantly.

“You his personal mailman now or somethin'?” he snorts, turning the envelope over in his hands and examining it. From what Sing can see, it's completely blank, except for Alex's name on the back.

Sing shoots a scrutinizing look the man's way, trying to figure out where he's seen him before. He's way too old to be one of Ash's boys.

“You don't remember me, do you,” the man sighs in grim acceptance, chuckling again but obviously peeved, this time. “It's me. Max. I think you guys,” he waves his finger in a circle around Sing and Alex, “ran around the sewers with my ex-wife a few weeks back.”

“Right,” Sing says slowly, realization finally dawning on him. Sing never really talked to him, but remembers seeing him around that night; remembers how big his hand looked when he would put it on Ash's shoulder. Max has stubble now that wasn’t there a few weeks ago, but it's definitely him. “The scary blond lady with the gun?”

Max smiles wryly. “That's Jessica,” he says, his gruff voice a little softer now. Sing arches an eyebrow at him. “Anyway,” he pauses, reaching into his jacket and pulling out another letter, “You're Sing Soo-Ling, right?”

Sing feels a spark of satisfaction at the fact that Ash felt he was worthy of a letter - whatever it's about - and relief that he'll have proof of Ash's safety.

He raises his chin proudly. “That's right.”

“Oh, perfect,” Max says brightly, handing him the envelope. Sing takes it, resisting the urge to tear it open on the spot. He doesn't want to look too eager. “And, uh, you fellas know where I can find this guy called ‘Cain Blood’?” Max brings the letter closer to his face, narrowing his eyes. “That can't be real,” he mutters under his breath.

“I'll take it to him,” Sing says, reaching out a hand. “I was heading over there, anyway.” The past few days have been a raging shitstorm; Cain's cool, collected presence might do him some good. He sure as hell doesn't want to go home and see Lao.

Max shrugs, giving him the letter. “Makes my job easier,” he says simply.

“What happened to him?” Alex asks, staring at his envelope in confusion. “This ain't like him. He's disappeared for days on end before, but he's never left a letter like this.”

Max hums, scratching the stubble on his chin with a furtive smile. “He said you'd ask that.”

Sing tenses, holding his breath -

“He also said not to tell you.”

-And exhales.

“Everything you need to know is in that letter,” Max continues, making his way to the door.

Sing looks down at his envelope; remembers the one Eiji had him give Ash just a few days before. Suddenly, he understands. He doesn't need to open it to know this means goodbye.

“Are you going to see him?” he asks quietly, a bitter lump forming in his throat. This means goodbye.

Max glances at him over his shoulder, amused. “What, do you have a letter for him, too?”

Sing shakes his head, clutching the envelope tight against his chest for a moment before slipping it into his jacket pocket, sweaty fingers wrinkling the paper. “Can - Can you tell him something for me?”

Max turns to face him, listening.

This is goodbye.

“Tell him I'm sorry,” Sing says, trying with all his heart to extinguish the embers of burning desperation in his voice, “and - and good luck.” He holds the letter in his pocket as tight as he can without ruining it.

Max looks at him for a moment. Sing looks down at the floor, eyes wide and shining as he thinks to himself, _Not here, not now._

“Sure thing, kid,” he hears Max say, and at the center of all the emotions growing inside him, there's, at the very least, a kernel of relief.

  


 

* * *

 

  


_Sing -_

_You're probably pissed at Lao for what he tried to do - if he's still alive. If he's not, I'm sorry. If he is, I'm still sorry, but I guess he and I are at least even._

_I'll get to the point. You probably guessed this the second Max handed you this letter, but I'll say it anyway: I'm leaving, and if everything goes according to plan, I'm not coming back, at least not for a while. Not to New York, and definitely not to the streets. You were right. I need to see Eiji. To make that possible, I have to tie up any and all loose ends here first. That means giving you a piece of advice I couldn't give you before, because it would have made me a hypocrite. I guess it still makes me a hypocrite. Again, I'll say it anyway:_

_This kind of life - the kind where you drop out of school to play soldier in the streets - is not worth it. I'm telling you this because you're young and smart, and I know it probably doesn't seem like it, but you have a choice. I didn't._

_Bus tables at Chang Dai and save up for movies on the weekends. Go to class. Meet a girl, or a boy - anyone who didn't grow up tangled in all this bullshit. Hold onto them and never let go. Let someone else run Chinatown; someone who's not 15. Be a kid, Sing. Be a kid for as long as you can._

_Or don't. Maybe I'm wrong. Throw this letter in the trash, if you want. I just had to say it. I wish someone had said it to me._

_That’s all. Except - kiss Nadia goodbye for me, yeah? The letter I wrote her doesn't feel like enough. Look out for her._

_I'll see you around._

_Ash_

  


 

* * *

 

  


“It's a thank you,” Cain chuckles, folding up his letter and setting it down on its torn envelope, “for helping him out with that shit with Arthur and Foxx.” He reaches for his drink and takes a sip, smiling wryly. “Says his boys owe me one. Can't wait to cash that favor.”

Sing’s face scrunches thoughtfully as he rocks back and forth on his barstool; one of its legs is shorter than the rest. It ticks and tocks against the floor every time he shifts his weight. He guesses Ash wouldn't dare try and give somebody like Cain advice like he did with Sing. Figures.

“I’m glad he’s with Eiji, but New York ain't gonna be the same without that pretty-boy motherfucker running around, that's for damn sure,” Cain muses, stretching his back muscles briefly before slouching over the bar again.

Sing's not so sure about that, honestly. There’ll still be violence; still be turf wars and drugs and sex. The subway will still smell like piss and tour groups will still flood Times Square.

Sing will be different, though. And so, he wagers, will Ash.

“What's yours say?” Cain asks suddenly, watching ice cubes swirl in his glass. Sing's not totally sure what he's drinking - just that it's alcoholic. It takes him a while to realize Cain is talking about his letter.

“Same thing,” he says after a moment, chin in one hand, carefully opened envelope in the other. “And I'm s’posed to kiss Shorter's sister goodbye for him.”

Cain whistles, taking another swig. “You gonna do it?” he asks slyly, big elbow nudging Sing in the shoulder.

Sing glances at him, sees his eyebrows wiggle behind his shades, and blushes. “Not like that,” he grumbles, facing forward.

“Shame,” Cain says, and then, “Hell, maybe I'll do it. She's pretty fine.”

Sing socks him in the arm. “Don't you dare,” he warns, ignoring Cain's laughter, “And besides, she's like a sister to me. A way older sister. If I kiss her, it's gonna be on the cheek.”

“What, you not into older ladies?” Cain teases, smiling around the lip of his glass in amusement, “The whole cougar thing doesn't do it for you?”

Sing reflects briefly on the tragic state of his romantic affairs - or lack thereof. Everyone he's ever liked has been older than him, it's true, but they all share one crucial common attribute that would make calling them ‘cougars’ inaccurate, even as a joke.

“ _Hell_ no,” Sing answers dryly, eyes scanning the shelf of alcohol he's too young to try on the other side of the bar. Though this place _is_ seedy as hell… He could probably get a drink, if he asked.

_Be a kid_ , he remembers against his will. His expression sours.

“Can I try that?” he asks, pointing to Cain's glass, hating how juvenile it makes him sound.

Cain regards him for a brief moment before handing the glass over with a shrug. Sing appreciates Cain not making a big deal of the fact that he's acting like a child at a New Year’s party asking his mommy for a sip of her champagne. Cain doesn't make a big deal about a lot of things. Sing needs that right now.

He holds the glass in both hands, the dark brown liquid reflecting his scrunched up nose. Whatever it is, it smells strong. Screwing his eyes shut, he raises it to his lips and takes a gulp. It sears a path down his throat, singeing his lungs, and he slams the glass down on the bar with a wet cough.

Cain's large hand claps his back in sympathy. “Whisky be like that,” he says wisely, taking his drink back.

Sing keeps coughing, forehead pressed against the sticky bar. His eyes sting, his heart burns. Eiji is gone. Ash is leaving. Yut-Lung is an asshole. Everything hurts, and whisky fucking sucks.

“You good?” Cain asks him with a deep chuckle. Something about that question always makes Sing want to cry. Maybe he needs whatever this is to be a big deal, after all.

He chooses his next words very carefully.

“What do you do when you like a girl?” he asks, still face-down on the bar.

“Jesus, Sing,” Cain laughs under his breath. He's silent for a moment, and then he says, “If you really like her, you feel like shit, mostly.”

Sing could have told him that much.

He sees mismatched images of kind smiles, electric green eyes, and silky black hair. The corner of a mouth, blond eyelashes, pale, delicate wrists. Voices light and dark and in-between. Wanting and not having, peeking through fingers. Chin up, heart down, always.

“I feel like shit,” he says roughly, and the words are nowhere near enough.

  


 

* * *

 

  


“I still can't believe I had to wait an extra week just for a phony passport,” Ash grunts, lifting his suitcase out of Max's trunk and setting it down on the asphalt.

Max scoffs. “A little louder, please, so the whole airport can hear you,” he says sardonically, leaning against the side of his car.

Ash grins, slamming the trunk shut. “Oops,” he whispers.

Max shakes his head as they start to cross the parking lot. “Two weeks off your feet and you've forgotten all your street smarts,” he tuts, waving gratefully at the driver of a white Sedan that gives them the right of way. “You disappoint me. You disappoint your father.”

Ash rolls his eyes, tugging his suitcase up onto the sidewalk by the entrance. “Just because you're pretending to be my father for identity fraud purposes,” he says, lowering his voice to a whisper, “doesn't mean you have to start talking like my _actual_ father.”

Max laughs, incredulous, as the automatic doors to the airport swish open. “Boy, are you slick,” he praises exaggeratedly, “Good to know you have this whole ‘undercover’ thing under control. I give you a solid five minutes before Interpol tackles you to the ground and conducts a cavity sear- “

Ash elbows Max in the gut, effectively cutting him off, and all discussion of cavity searches stops there. He needs Max's help figuring out where to go, though, so he begrudgingly promises to keep his limbs to himself from here on out. But Max doesn't seem to be as mad at Ash as he'd like him to believe, deciding to wait in line with him at check-in.

“I'm serious, you didn't have to stay with me,” Ash says, clutching his freshly printed ticket like a lifeline as the two of them skitter away so they don't hold up the line. His suitcase was too big to bring with him, so he ended up checking it. He feels naked without it, and now the travel experience feels much more real.

Max rolls his eyes. “I think you mean ‘thank you,’” he says, lightly smacking Ash upside the head. “Don't act like you knew what you were doing back there. And besides, I'm happy to help.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ash grumbles as they approach airport security. There's a man in uniform asking to see people's passports and plane tickets before directing them to one of three security lines. Ash's heart thumps. He may not have any prior experience with airports, but he gets the feeling Max isn't going to be able to follow him through there.

Suddenly, there's a small but loud part of him that’s saying, _I don't want to leave_.

Max's hand claps his shoulder. Ash turns to him, dread and excitement pulling him apart inside, despite Max's encouraging smile.

“Am I making the right choice?” he asks, voice small. He's never asked anyone that before. He was always afraid of the answer.

He's _still_ afraid of the answer.

Max's other hand grabs Ash's other shoulder and squeezes firmly. His face is calm but focused; always steadfast and resolute where Ash falters.

“Absolutely,” he says, pulling Ash into a hug. Ash feels a rush of warmth flood him, his arms wrapping around Max's wide middle, face buried in his broad shoulder. “Absolutely, Ash.”

Ash's vision blurs. He shuts his wet eyes tight.

This is why he didn't send Eiji off. This is why he sent those letters. This is why he said Max didn't have to wait with him. Everything that's been slowly brewing inside him for weeks now - for years - is bubbling to the surface. He wants to see Eiji more than anything, but, like it or not, New York is home. He thought he'd be okay leaving it.

He's a lot of things. ‘Okay’ is not one of them. ‘Okay’ is both a vast understatement and far too generous.

“I'm scared,” he whispers.

Max laughs sadly. “I thought you were some kinda hotshot gang leader,” he teases, but cradles Ash's head like he's a newborn. “Guess you're still a kid after all.”  

Ash manages a weak, nasally chuckle through his tears. He keeps counting down in his head, steeling himself to let Max go and leave this city behind, but every time he reaches zero, his resolve melts into liquid metal. He can't remember the last time he hugged anyone for this long. Jim never held him like this.

Max sniffs and clears his throat with a firm and final pat to Ash's back before prying himself away. Ash tips his head down, rubbing his cheeks and eyes dry with the backs of his hands. When he looks up, Max is wiping his nose with his knuckle, blue irises rippling with tears, face blotchy and red. Seeing him like that makes Ash want to start weeping all over again.

“Alright,” Max says, patting and squeezing Ash's shoulder as he plasters on a crooked smile, “I'm callin’ it. Enough with the waterworks.”

Ash sniffs and nods stiffly, taking a step back so Max's palm slips off of him and reaching out a hand in offering. Max makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh and grips it firmly.

“Thank you for everything,” Ash says, voice raw.

Max squeezes his palm tight. “Thank _you_ ,” he echoes, “and take care, kid.” His lips wobble, but he stays true to his word and doesn't cry again.

“Someday, I,” Ash starts, but the words stick in his throat. He sucks in a breath and begins again, telling himself to be brave.

“Someday,” he says, “we’ll come back.” When things are better. When they've all healed.

Max grins, wide like the world, and lets out a hearty laugh. “You better.”

They shake on it, a promise cradled between their palms that remains even after they part.

  


 

* * *

 

  


The whole cabin shakes as the plane lifts off, and Ash feels fluttery and buoyant like the kites he and Griff used to fly in Cape Cod. He presses his forehead against the glass of his small oval window, watching New York shrink until Ash could cup Central Park in his palm and let the Hudson cascade between his fingers, Lady Liberty sitting on his thumb.

He cranes his neck to keep looking even as the plane pulls him further and further away from his city. He lets it go, places a hand over his chest pocket, over Eiji's letter, over his heart.

It's lonely leaving home, but staying without Eiji would be even lonelier.

Ash can't wait to see him again.

 

 

 

  



	2. i've finally found you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The closer he gets to Eiji, the longer it takes to reach him. They're asymptotic, it feels like - tending to infinity, approaching each other but never quite making contact._
> 
> _He can’t believe he used to see Eiji every day. He can't believe that, soon, it'll be that way again._

It's Ash’s first time out of the country.

It's his first time on a plane, even. It's his first time being in a place where he can't read the advertisements, it's his first time hearing so many foreign languages at once, and it's his first time being in a city he knows next to nothing about.

Well, he supposes he knows a few things.

Eiji was right about Tokyo; it's crowded and loud, just like New York. Ash can tell that much just from the airport. He can't take a single step without bumping shoulders with someone and he keeps compulsively looking back to make sure his suitcase hasn’t been swallowed up by the sea of people behind him. 

His connecting flight to Izumo takes approximately seven millennia, and then another few for him to finally make it through customs. The closer he gets to Eiji, the longer it takes to reach him. They're asymptotic, it feels like - tending to infinity, approaching each other but never quite making contact. 

He can’t believe he used to see Eiji every day. He can't believe that, soon, it'll be that way again.

He rocks back and forth on his heels as he waits in line, stomach doing flips that he stubbornly attributes to motion sickness from the two excruciating flights he just endured. Alone with his thoughts, he starts worrying about stupid shit like the dark rings he saw under his eyes in the cloudy airplane bathroom mirror and how greasy his hair is. He's been sweating, too, even though it's freezing outside. He wanted to be presentable when he first saw Eiji again. He hadn't anticipated the toll those flights would take on him.

He wants to find a bathroom and wash his face or something -  _ anything _ \- but before he can try, he's being pushed outside baggage claim by the current of strangers around him. His heart sinks into his gut before bouncing back up, buoyant like a message in a bottle drifting in the ocean between the U.S. and Japan; between Ash and Eiji. He clutches the grip of his suitcase like a life raft as he stumbles along. He sees black line dividers, families with eager faces, and a sign that says, “Arrivals.” His breath stops. He stands on his tip-toes and scans the crowd. This is where they're supposed to meet. 

His heart is beating so fast and hard that it's painful, his legs shaking. All the things he thought he'd say, all the cool lines he rehearsed on the plane, blink out of his consciousness the moment he sees Eiji.

He's standing on the other side of the line divider separating them, wearing the bomber jacket he got back in New York, hands clasped over his chest, hopeful as if in prayer. His big, dark eyes are like a home away from home, so beautiful that Ash could cry, and they're staring right back at him.

Ash kicks his suitcase under the line divider and hops it, ignoring the gasps from the people around him. His eyes sting and his wound hurts as he runs, but stopping would hurt more. Eiji spreads his arms wide, stumbling forward to meet him, calling his name, and nothing else matters.

They come together like magnets clicking into place: fast and hard and, more than anything, right. They're a flurry of limbs that wrap around each other tight like coach on a transcontinental flight and a bond that makes one worth it.

Relief sweeps over them in a flood, has them buckling to their knees in the middle of the airport. Ash’s layers chip off like rusty armor one by one, his heart raw underneath. With just one touch, Eiji smooths him out like the sea does with jagged pieces of glass.

He doesn't realize he's sobbing until he hears his own broken voice say Eiji's name. He never remembers that he's human until he hears Eiji say his. Until Eiji looks at him, talks to him, touches him; until warmth thaws the snows of Kilimanjaro and his heart rides the avalanche back home. Eiji makes him  _ feel _ . Eiji is proof that he feels anything at all. When Ash looks at him, it’s so good it  _ hurts _ , and he never wants it to stop. 

“Ash,” Eiji cries, hands scrambling desperately at his back, face buried in the crook of Ash's neck. His hot tears seep into his skin, burning. It feels like the last time they saw each other was in another life. Ash holds him so tight they both might bruise. 

He grabs Eiji's shoulders, his sides, the back of his neck, his hair. His hands and heart are both starving. It takes every bit of self-restraint he has not to pin Eiji to the floor and kiss him slow and deep, pouring every ounce of longing, every drop of heartbreak into it until he feels empty of everything but love. To overflow is painful and dizzying, but it's what he needs.

“Ash,” Eiji whimpers again, lifting his head and nuzzling Ash's temple, breath warm on his ear. “Ash, you are here?” His arms coil tight around Ash's neck, their chests flush, hearts beating hard against each other. “We are together?”

Ash nods, arms curling tighter around Eiji's middle. His knees are sore, but airport security will have to threaten deportation before he even thinks about moving. 

“We're together,” he affirms, crying and laughing, unbidden, blushing when Eiji rubs his cheeks dry with his thumbs. “My god, look at you.” He reaches up, holding Eiji's face reverently. He can't believe he gets to touch him like this,  _ finally _ , after being apart for so long; after coming so close together only to be torn apart time and time again. 

“This is what I wanted to do the last time I saw you,” he says, voice thick, remembering how it felt to see Eiji reach out to him, but not being able to take his hand. It broke his heart. So does thinking about it. “Eiji, you looked so - “ 

His words fail him and his voice tapers off, high-pitched and throaty. “You're okay now?” he manages to ask. He needs to know.

Eiji puts a finger on Ash's lips, shaking his head with a watery, ‘don't-worry’ smile. Ash almost kisses his fingertip. He'd give anything just to kiss Eiji's fingertip.

“Are  _ you _ ?” Eiji laughs, sniffling as he tucks strands of Ash's hair behind his ear. “Of course you are. You are hurt and fly across the world and still look like model.” He pulls Ash's face towards him until their foreheads touch, palms firm on his cheeks. “Your wound - you are not in pain?”

“No,” Ash says, and means it. His nose brushes Eiji's accidentally, and then once more on purpose. “I feel like I'll never be in pain again.”

Eiji’s eyes shine like black pearls. His hands wander restlessly, stroking down Ash's face and through his hair.

“Always,” he says, voice breaking, “ _ Always _ , I’m thinking of you. Of how I miss you. I think I - “

Tears dribble over his reddened cheeks, his bottom lip quivering. Ash leans into his touch, holds Eiji's gentle hand against the side of his face, pressing into it.

“You are most important to me, of everything. I said once that I will stay with you forever and I meant it. Without you - “ Eiji tells him, shaking his head like he can't believe what he's saying, but needs to say it anyway. He laughs through snot and saltwater, shrugging. 

“Doesn't work,” he says simply. “Without Ash,  _ I  _ don't work.”

Ash pulls him in, their damp cheeks pressed together tight as Eiji clutches the front of his shirt and Ash's arms hold him around the shoulders. And he swears then and there that he's never letting go.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


His silent vow proves to be something of a logistical problem when it comes time for them to make the drive to Eiji's house - not only because maneuvering through the ring of onlookers that gathered to watch their tearful reunion is twice as hard when you're glued to someone’s side, but also because, eventually, they're gonna have to get in the car. That's not just hard to do when you're glued to someone's side, it's impossible, especially since Ash's someone is driving, and it's being confronted with that harsh reality that makes him finally remove his arm from around Eiji’s shoulders. 

His only comfort is that Eiji seems equally reluctant to remove his hand from the small of Ash's back, but it's outweighed by his disappointment at Eiji no longer touching him.

“I have it,” Eiji says, placing a hand on Ash's elbow when Ash bends down to hoist his suitcase into the trunk. Before Ash can protest, Eiji is lifting it for him, dropping it in the car, and adjusting its position so it's aligned perfectly with the trunk, corner to corner. 

Ash blushes, shuffling toward the passenger door, which is on the left side. Eiji told him when they first spotted it across the parking lot that Japanese cars are like that, but it's still weird actually seeing it.

“I can handle my own bag,” Ash informs his friend.

Eiji grins at him over the roof of the car, cheerfully twirling his keychain around his forefinger. 

“I can handle your bag too,” he answers before ducking into the driver's seat.

Ash supposes he can’t argue with that and climbs into the car. His knees press up against the glove compartment uncomfortably, and he's not sure if he should say something about it or just suck it up.

He quickly discovers that he doesn't have to. “You can adjust your seat with the thing on the side,” Eiji instructs, giggling. Ash pulls in his knees self-consciously, reaching down and blindly feeling around for a lever.

“Ah, other side,” Eiji says. Ash groans, switching sides and still not finding it. “Here, let me - “

Eiji leans over the center console, reaching between it and Ash's seat. Their hands touch somewhere unseen, and Ash swears Eiji lingers, but says nothing. They were so touchy earlier, so earnest, but now that they're slowly coming down from the high of seeing each other again for the first time in this life, Ash isn't sure what's okay anymore. He gets the feeling Eiji is going through the same thing.

Eiji says, “A- _ ha _ ,” something clicks, and Ash's seat lurches backwards. He yelps, hands darting out to grab onto Eiji's arm on instinct. 

Eiji laughs, patting Ash's hands comfortingly, and it feels way better than just ‘okay.’ He leans back into his seat, buckling up. 

“Seatbelt,” he says, looking like he wants to help again.

“I got it,” Ash says gruffly, snapping his buckle into place.

Eiji clicks his tongue, but smiles. “ _ I can handle my own bag; I can do my own seatbelt _ ,” he parrots mockingly, putting his key in the ignition. “Ungrateful baby.”

Ash glares, flicking his cheek as the car hums to life around them. Eiji swats him away.

“No attacking the driver,” he warns, “or we both get into accident and die, and then my mother brings me back to life and kills me again for breaking our car.” He puts a hand on Ash's seat back as he pulls out of their parking space, looking through the back window.

It's such a mundane action, but the concentration on Eiji's face as he does it makes Ash tingle with nervous warmth, despite his casual laughter. 

“Would she really?” he probes, curious. He doesn't know much about Eiji's family. He wants to know everything.

Eiji faces forward again, thinking as they leave the parking lot. “It’s not like she is mean,” he starts, sounding like he's trying to set Ash at ease, “but yes. And I would not blame her.”

Ash grins, propping his knees up on the dash, ignoring the dirty look Eiji gives him. “So that's where you get it from,” he teases.

“Get what from?” Eiji asks, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Ash looks out the window, gesturing vaguely. “The uptightness,” he explains, “Y’know. The nagging. The menopause.”

Eiji laughs, reaching over to ruffle Ash's hair viciously, eyes still on the road. “What is with this disrespect?” he demands, “You are a guest in my country. Be polite!”

Ash laughs, too, not batting Eiji's hand away even though he could. Eiji's fingers turn soft, gently running through the strands before almost reluctantly slipping away. He wishes he had the words to tell Eiji he doesn't have to retreat. He also wishes he would take his own advice.

He knits his brow and picks at a loose thread in the cuff of his denim jacket, mind wandering.

“Your mother,” he starts, twirling the thread around the tip of his finger and pulling it taut, “Do you think she'll like me?”

The dead air that follows makes him think he shouldn't have asked, but after a moment, Eiji's hand finds Ash's and tugs it onto the center console. The thread wound around Ash's fingertip loosens and falls away. Eiji laces their fingers, gentle but firm, and squeezes Ash's hand. Ash looks up at him, blushing, but Eiji's eyes are on the road.

“She agreed to let you stay with us,” he says, thumb brushing over Ash's skin comfortingly, “so she does not hate you or something.”

Ash laughs dryly, despite the flurry of butterflies in his gut. “Oh, great.”

“She was worried,” Eiji sighs, conflicted. “Her son was hurt because he was in danger. For her,  _ you _ were danger.”

Ash looks away, out the window. “She was right,” he says quietly.

“No.”

Ash turns his head slowly, looking at Eiji out of the corner of his eye. Eiji is still facing forward, gaze steady on the road ahead.

“She was wrong,” he asserts, “and so are you. All that time, you kept me safe.” He squeezes Ash's hand tight. “She has...softened over the time I have been back. I will make her understand if she doesn’t already.”

Tentatively, Ash squeezes back. “Yeah?” he asks, hopeful and grateful and just  _ full _ in general. 

Eiji smiles as they approach a red light. The car slows to a stop. He turns to Ash, lifting their linked hands and pressing Ash's knuckles to his chest, right over his heart.

“Yeah,” Eiji says. Ash can feel Eiji's heartbeat quicken, but his face is serene. “Everything will be okay, I promise.”

Ash feels himself smile, cheeks warm, eyes shining.  _ I love him _ , he thinks.  _ More than anything. _

Eiji grins. The light turns green, and he faces the road again. “It is impossible to stay mad at that face anyway,” he laments dramatically, stepping on the gas pedal. “I have tried.”

Ash blinks at him, dumbfounded, before collapsing into a laughing fit so severe he snorts. He doesn't care. Eiji's hand is warm in his, and neither of them let go.

  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  


By the time Eiji pulls into his driveway, Ash has dozed off with his cheek cradled in his seatbelt. Moving feels like trying to swim through molasses, so he doesn't bother, even when the car slows and the engine stops. Eiji has to snap his fingers in front of his face a few times before his crusty eyes finally flutter open and he remembers where he is.

“Up,” Eiji says, briefly stroking Ash's head before unbuckling his seatbelt and taking his keys out of the ignition. “We are here.”

Ash grumbles incoherently, the hand he has resting on the center console curling into a weak, empty fist. He rubs his eyes with it, sitting up and wincing at the crick in his neck.

“It is a long trip, I know,” Eiji says sympathetically as Ash scratches the itchy red line his seatbelt dug into his cheek. “I slept for days when I first came back. Then Max called and said you are coming and I was so excited I thought I would  _ never _ sleep.”

Ash keeps rubbing at his face, the words taking a moment to sink in as his groggy mind adjusts to being awake. He freezes up when they finally do. He looks at Eiji, chest warm.

“You were excited?” he asks, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a crooked grin. When he thinks about it - about Eiji's letter - he's not too surprised, but he wants to hear it again.

Eiji looks at him with a knowing smile. “Yes, Ash,” he says, like it's obvious. He arches an eyebrow, a silent challenge. “Were you not?”

He's asking as a joke, but Ash still feels compelled to answer truthfully.

“Of course I was,” he says, shifting in his seat to face Eiji completely, “I just - I didn't want to impose.”

Eiji squints. “Im-pose,” he echoes.

“Be a burden,” Ash explains, looking down at his twiddling thumbs, “For you and your family, I mean. I was worried.”  _ I  _ am  _ worried. _

Eiji blinks at him owlishly. “It is a much bigger burden for me when you are away,” he says earnestly, expression unguarded. “I thought you knew? If you are gone, I go crazy.” 

Ash swallows, staring. It's just a simple statement of fact for Eiji; an objective truth. The Earth rotates on an axis of 23 degrees. Cats don’t really have nine lives. Without Ash, Eiji loses it. Ash feels kind of stupid. He can only hope Eiji's family is as welcoming as he is.

After a while, Eiji huffs, starting to blush and poking Ash in the forehead. 

“I told you this at the airport and already you forget,” he nags.

Ash rubs the back of his neck, fighting a smile. 

Eiji sighs. “How many times must I tell you I want to be with you?” he asks hopelessly.

_ Until I believe it.  _ Ash doesn't dare look him in the eyes, face burning. He smothers his stupid grin in his palm. 

Eiji shows him mercy and gets out of the car, shaking his head. Ash follows, climbing out of his seat and into the cold January air. He stretches, grunting under his breath in satisfaction, eyes shut. When he opens them again, he sees Eiji's house.

It's bigger than he thought it'd be, and it looks a little like some of the buildings in Chinatown, but less kitschy and without the roasted ducks hanging in the windows.

“It is different, right?” Eiji says, a little bashful, “From houses in America.”

Ash looks at the sliding doors and the fancy tiles on the roof in wonder; cranes his neck to follow the path of the wooden veranda wrapping around the side of the house with his eyes.

“Do all the houses here look like this?” If he hadn't fallen asleep on the car ride here, maybe he'd know, but a nap to ease his jet lag was too tempting to pass up, as curious about Japanese architecture as he is.

Eiji laughs, opening up the trunk of his car. “No, our house is just traditional,” he explains, lifting Ash's suitcase with a huff and setting it down on the driveway.

“It's cool.” Ash walks over to him and, as politely as he can manage, pries the handle of his suitcase out of Eiji's grasp. Eiji rolls his eyes, smiling. “Are the walls inside made of paper?”

Eiji rubs the back of his neck, blushing. “Um, some of them,” he says. He seems to realize something then and frowns.

“What?” Ash asks. Suddenly, he worries that his questions were offensive somehow.

Eiji shakes his head, laughing dismissively. “Nothing, nothing,” he says, waving Ash off and ushering him toward the house. “Go, go inside. It's cold out here, no?”

Ash arches his brow in question, but does as he's told and follows the little stone pathway leading to the front door. He almost hits his head on a clunky chain-like thing hanging from the gutters, but jerks back just in time to avoid it. He squints, trying to figure out its use.

“Is that some kind of wind chime?” he asks incredulously, though he doubts it. If it is, it looks like it sounds awful.

Eiji snickers from behind him, poking his head over Ash's shoulder. “It's called  _ kusaridoi _ ,” he explains, pointing at the top of the chain where it's connected to the gutters. “When it rains, water comes down here.” He follows the invisible path of rain through the metal with his finger.

Ash nods, a little embarrassed that he keeps having to ask about things that must seem obvious to Eiji. 

“I don't really know anything about Japan,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes apologetic.

Eiji smiles at him and rests his chin on Ash's shoulder. After reminding himself to breathe, Ash leans into his touch, hoping he's not being too obvious. 

“Remember how much I didn't know when I met you?” Eiji asks, voice light by Ash's ear. Ash smiles, body tingling. 

“Took me forever to explain the subway system to you,” he snickers, the thought of Eiji's frustration when trying to read the maps Ash showed him easing his nervousness at standing so close, “ _ and _ you'd never had a hotdog before. Honestly, Eiji - “

“My point is,” Eiji cuts him off hotly, blushing and replacing his chin on Ash's shoulder with an angry fist, “You will learn. Just like me. We have time, and now we are finally safe. It's not like we have to deal with  _ yakuza _ here.” Eiji fishes his key out of his jacket pocket and walks up to the door, jamming it into the lock.

“ _ Yaku _ -what?” Ash asks, exasperated. Now Eiji is just confusing him on purpose.

Eiji smirks over his shoulder. “You really know nothing.” He opens the door and steps aside, gesturing for Ash to come in. Ash sneers at him and his shit-eating grin. “ _ Yakuza _ is the Japanese mafia.”

“Right,” Ash says slowly, shuffling inside with his luggage in hand. “You mentioned something about not needing a gun to live here. Still not sure I buy it.” The house is dark. Eiji's family must not be home.

“You saw how bad I am at shooting,” Eiji snorts, following Ash into the house and closing the door behind them. “If I needed a gun in Japan, I would have died already.”

Ash shivers, a chill running down his spine. “Don't even joke about that,” he grumbles, frowning.

Eiji's hand finds his in the dark. “Sorry.”

The lights come on, brightening Eiji's smiling face. 

“ _ Okaeri _ ,” he says, the cadence of his voice less familiar in his native tongue.

“What does that mean?” Whatever it is, it feels important.

Wordlessly, Eiji stands up on the tips of his feet, arms wrapping gently but firmly around Ash's shoulders. He holds him like he never wants to let go.

“‘Welcome home,’” he chuckles. 

Ash closes his eyes and breathes in. The air here smells different; like Eiji. Sweet and dizzying. They hold each other for a moment before Eiji stands back and beams at him, full of excitement.

Eiji is eager to show him around the house, starting with the entryway, which Ash notices is at a lower floor level than the living room with a little rack full of shoes. 

“ _ Genkan _ ,” Eiji says slowly, gesturing to the floor and looking at Ash expectantly.

Ash concentrates. “ _ Genkan _ ,” he says, though it comes out sounding like a question.

Eiji nods and smiles, giving Ash a congratulatory pat on the head. 

“This is where we take off our shoes,” he explains, sitting down on the step leading up to the living room and untying his sneakers. “Then we put them on that rack with the others.”

Ash does as he's told, toeing out of his shoes and setting them down next to Eiji's. As soon as he's finished, Eiji is tugging him along by the hand and giving him a grand tour, pointing out uniquely Japanese household objects and features that Ash has never heard of before.  _ Tatami _ ,  _ engawa _ ,  _ kotatsu _ ,  _ shoji _ \- Eiji shows them all to Ash, explaining their names and functions. By the time they've looped back to the living room, Ash has decided that American houses are astonishingly boring. 

However, of all the things he's seen and learned, there's one household item Eiji has yet to address. Ash didn't notice it when he first came in since his view was obstructed by a wall, but now that he's actually in the living room instead of the  _ genkan _ , it's hard to miss. He walks towards it, curious eyes scanning the small, shelf-like object and the burnt-out incense sticks and bowl of peaches sitting on it. When he gets closer, he realizes there's a framed photo on it, too, and when he kneels down in front of it, he's surprised to see that it's a picture of Eiji.

“What's this?” he asks, intrigued, and looks over his shoulder to see Eiji still standing by the couch and picking at the fabric of his jacket almost nervously. Ash knits his brow. “Eiji?”

Eiji sighs and shuffles over wordlessly, kneeling down next to Ash and placing his folded hands in his lap. His back is straight, but the line of his mouth is crooked.

“It is  _ butsudan _ ,” he says evenly. “Many Japanese families have these. It is like an altar. When someone dies, we put their photo here and give offerings.” He reaches out and brushes the pad of his finger over the fuzzy fruit in the bowl. “Like  _ momo _ . ‘Peach.’”

Confusion makes Ash shake his head. “Then why's there a photo of  _ you _ up there? You're not dead.”

Eiji looks away. “My father is.”

Ash's heart stops, his blood running cold. 

_ Oh. _

“I'm sorry,” he whispers, not knowing what else to say. He puts an arm around Eiji's shoulder on instinct, looking back at the photo.

In retrospect, he probably should have known it wasn't Eiji. The man in the picture - Eiji's father - has the same nose as Eiji, the same unruly, dark hair, the same round cheeks, but where his eyes are narrow and sharp, Eiji's are wide and soft. 

Eiji chuckles faintly, leaning into Ash's side and letting himself be comforted for a moment before straightening his spine again and standing up. He stretches, trying a little too hard to look leisurely. 

“When?” Ash asks, voice hushed. Suddenly, he feels like he's seeing a side of Eiji he never really thought about before. 

Eiji Okumura had almost two decades of experiences before coming to New York that Ash had nothing to do with. Eiji Okumura is somebody's student, somebody's classmate. Somebody's brother. Somebody's son.

Eiji scratches the back of his head. “Do you know why Ibe-san brought me to America?” he asks, a strange look on his face.

“I thought it was because you quit pole-vaulting,” Ash says, “because of your injury.”

Eiji nods solemnly. “That is half of it. The other half…” He shrugs, gesturing to the  _ butsudan _ with a sad smile.

Ash covers his mouth with his hand. A mixture of horrible realizations make his stomach churn. 

Eiji was only ever supposed to be in New York for a few weeks. It was supposed to be a nice change of pace. It was supposed to get his mind off things. Ash knew all that already.

What he didn't know is that Eiji wasn't just mourning his athletic career, he was also mourning his fucking  _ dad _ .

Ash buries his face in his hands, feeling sick. Eiji didn't even have time to process what happened before he came to America and Ash kept him there - away from his grieving family - for almost  _ two years _ . Now he may never get the chance.

A warm hand touches the back of his neck.

“You are upset,” Eiji observes softly, fingers brushing Ash's hair. He tugs at the back of Ash's shirt until Ash finally meets his eyes.

He doesn't know what to say, so he just says, “I'm really sorry,” his voice thick with regret. He hopes against hope that Eiji will be able to forgive him somehow.

Eiji smiles down at him, sighing. “You fit in well here in Japan,” he says breezily, “apologizing for things that are not your fault.”

Ash manages a hollow smile, for Eiji. Eiji pats his cheek.

“Come,” he starts, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the hallway, “I will help you unpack.”

Ash is thankful to have a task to distract him from his guilt and Eiji seems equally eager to surrender himself to the comfort of routine. They did laundry together in New York; sitting on the floor and sorting clothes feels familiar.

Ash was prepared to live out of his suitcase when he first decided he was coming to Japan, but Eiji insists on moving him in anyway, folding up his wrinkled shirts and tutting before tucking them into the dresser in the corner. 

He's in the middle of a passionate rant about the fact that Ash doesn't seem to have a single pair of matching socks when the front door opens.

What follows is a pleasant voice calling Eiji's name and the sound of crinkling plastic bags. Eiji whips his head towards the door, hollering, “ _ Okaeri _ ,” as if on instinct. He looks over to Ash, smiling encouragingly. Ash feels his heart thud against his ribs in anticipation and anxiety. He shares a look with Eiji, knowing who's at the door.

“Come, I can introduce you,” Eiji says in a reassuring voice, already shuffling towards the hall leading out to the living room.

Ash swallows nervously. “Does she speak English?” he asks, hoping he's not being offensive.

Eiji's flat hand teeters in the air uncertainly. “Not very much,” he concedes, “but I can translate.”

Ash nods, running his hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it as he follows Eiji into the living room.

There, hunched over in the  _ genkan _ , is probably the cutest middle-aged lady Ash has ever seen. She's short - shorter than  _ Eiji _ \- and has warm, brown skin and hair tied back in a low bun. She tugs on a pair of slippers, grocery bags laying at her feet, and says something in Japanese. As if in response, Eiji rushes over to her, dutifully picking up shopping bags and whispering a quick, “Say hello,” to Ash before disappearing into the kitchen with a wink over his shoulder.

Ash feels a stab of betrayal at being abandoned before composing himself and facing the woman before him, who is looking up at him with wide eyes. 

Eiji may have his father's face, but his eyes are definitely his mom's.

Ash rubs the sweat of his palms off on his jeans, blurting “ _ Ohayou gozaimasu _ ,” before he can remember that, firstly, that means ‘good morning,’ and secondly, it is currently mid-afternoon. The skin on his cheeks burns so hot he wants nothing more than to peel it off.

Mrs. Okumura blinks up at him owlishly. A few curly strands have fallen out of her bun and frame her round, slack-jawed face.

“ _ Ohayou gozaimasu _ ,” she echoes asbently with a polite little nod that only makes Ash want to die even more. She's humoring him, though she looks in awe - of what, Ash doesn't know. His shitty Japanese, maybe. He presses his lips into a tight line, trapped in a silent staring contest with Eiji's mom. Luckily, Eiji comes to his rescue before he embarrasses himself further by trying to regurgitate other half-remembered Japanese phrases Eiji taught him.

“ _ Kaa-chan _ ,” he says, a little out of breath as he puts a reassuring hand on Ash's shoulder, “ _ kore wa  _ Ash.”

Upon hearing his name, Ash assumes he's being introduced and plasters on an awkward smile, waving.

Mrs. Okumura glances between Ash and Eiji like she's searching for something and smiles warmly when she finds it. It makes her eyes crinkle at the edges. It’s a little strange, seeing Eiji's eyes in someone else. This really is his mom. Eiji didn't fall from heaven, he's not made of sugar and spice and everything nice. He was born just like everyone else. And this is the woman that raised him.

She says something in Japanese, slow enough to give Ash the chance to keep up, if he had the vocabulary for it, but fast enough that it isn't patronizing. Not that Ash doesn’t feel like an idiot anyway, inviting himself into someone's home without even speaking her language. He makes a mental note to buy an English-Japanese dictionary the first chance he gets.

For now, though, Ash turns to Eiji for help. 

Eiji grins. “She says it's nice to meet you,” he translates, then turns to his mother. “ _ Hansamu deshou _ ?”

Ash can't be sure, but one of those words sounds suspiciously like ‘handsome.’ He blushes as Eiji's mom nods and giggles behind her hand.

“Hey,” he mutters, nudging Eiji in the side with his elbow, “how do I thank her for letting me stay here?”

Eiji's eyes light up. He leans in close, whispering the answer into Ash's ear and making it tingle. Ash makes a conscious effort not to shiver.

“ _Tomete kurete arigatou,_ _Okumura-san_ ,” he repeats slowly, hoping he didn't butcher the pronunciation too much and that the improvised honorific he added to her last name is appropriate. He smiles at her, self-conscious but determined to salvage her first impression of him. This is Eiji's mother. The value he places on her opinion is second only to her son's. 

A rosy glow blooms on her cheeks as she beams up at him. She points at her own face with a short, plump finger.

“Naoko,” she says amiably. It takes Ash a moment to realize she's telling him her first name. A burst of warmth floods every nook and cranny in his heart. Suddenly she's a little less intimidating.

Even Eiji seems pleasantly surprised by her implicit offer to call her by her first name, nudging Ash with his shoulder and giving him a bright grin and an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Ash laughs politely. “Naoko-san, then,” he amends, still hesitant to drop the honorific. Better safe than sorry.

Naoko nods, looking pleased. “ _ Youkoso _ ,” she tells him, reaching up to pat his shoulder with one of her warm little hands, “Welcome.”

The flood of warmth in his chest rises until he can feel it pricking his eyes. 

“ _ Arigatou _ .”

  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  


An hour later, Ash is on the couch flipping through manga he can't read while Eiji helps his mom with dinner. He offered to lend a hand, but Eiji insisted he'd just get in the way, and when he saw the kitchen counter lined with ingredients he couldn't make sense of, he was inclined to agree. 

He's on the verge of passing out from jet lag when a girl he's never seen before bursts in, making his head snap up so quick he hears - and feels - a slightly disconcerting  _ crack _ .

She’s in a sleeveless, navy blue jersey that clings to her with cold sweat as she drops her bag by the door and carelessly kicks off her shoes. They lock eyes when she moves to toss her lacrosse stick on the couch. For a moment they look at each other like two burglars robbing the same house.

The thing is, when Eiji said he had a younger sister, Ash pictured a little girl with a gap-toothed grin and pigtails who looks up to her brother like he's a star in the sky. He pictured big, dark eyes and round, rosy cheeks. He pictured pink overall dresses and drawings of crayon rainbows. He pictured babyish, girly, and innocent.

Mika Okumura, he learns quickly, is exactly none of those things.

For starters, she looks like she's in her late teens - old enough to be a gang leader by New York standards - and while this is Ash's first time seeing her, he has a hard time picturing her playing dress-up in frills and tiaras. 

She’s not a baby and she's not a daisy. Already she's thrown him two curveballs. One more strike and Ash is gonna take another IQ test to make sure he's not actually a total dumbass.

As Ash wonders if stab wounds to the torso could have an effect on brain activity, Mika's brows draw together - slowly, like she's realizing something and isn't happy about it. 

“Uh,” Ash says dumbly as he snaps back to reality and shuts his book, “hey.”

Mika lets her stick drop to the floor with a loud clatter and covers her face in her hands. Ash panics silently. Was he not supposed to make eye contact or something? Is that another part of Japanese etiquette he has to learn about the hard way? 

“You are Ash-kun?” she asks, muffled by her palms. Eiji once briefed him on Japanese honorifics back in New York, but he's still surprised when Mika tacks one onto the end of his name. Eiji never did; not even when they first met.

“Yeah,” he answers, sitting up straight and bowing his head in a way he hopes is polite instead of insulting. He clears his throat, trying to act natural. “You must be Eiji’s little sister.”

Mika peeks at him through her fingers before sighing and finally lowering her hands, wringing them nervously. Her cheeks are a deep red, and it's not just from the weather outside.

“Yes,” she says, “I am Mika.” She groans softly, grimacing as she runs her fingers through her messy hair. “I wanted for our first meeting to be,” she pauses, struggling to find the words. Ash waits patiently as she scratches her head, screwing her eyes shut in thought. Finally, she perks up, snapping her fingers and grinning.

“More cool!” she says. Ash smiles politely, unsure of what she means. Her happy expression withers and dies as she slumps in defeat. “I wanted to be more cool. I am not prepared.”

Ash laughs at that, tension easing out of him. “That makes two of us,” he says, relieved. “The way Eiji talked about you, I thought you'd be much younger.”

Mika narrows her eyes, driving her fist into her palm threateningly. “I hope he said nothing stupid,” she says, her tone implying he better not have, for his sake. She's poised like a boxer before a match.

Ash snickers. Her English is about where Eiji's was when he first came to New York, her grammar fine, for the most part, but her accent unmissable. Even when she's threatening violence, he can't help but think it's endearing as hell. That, combined with the rest of her - big eyes, tousled hair, and a sweet face - make Ash wonder why Eiji ever described her as ‘ugly.’ She looks like him, if he was a little shorter, his hair was a little longer, and he carried himself with a little more confidence. 

He does Eiji a favor and lies. “Nah, only good things,” he assures her.

She eyes him skeptically. “You were in mafia?”

Ash blinks, caught off-guard. “It's complicated, but, uh, sort of.”

A wry smile plays on her lips. “Then you must lie better,” she says, picking up her lacrosse stick and poking him in the shoulder with the end of it.

Ash blinks, surprised but not offended by the gesture; it makes him feel like he can let his guard down around her. He grins.

“Nothing gets past you. You would make a good gangster.”

Her laugh sounds just like Eiji's as she swings her stick onto her shoulder and heads to the kitchen. “I say so often, but my mother gets angry,” she laments as she ducks her head through the door. Ash watches as she calls something to Eiji and Naoko-san in Japanese before turning back to him and side-stepping towards the hallway leading to her bedroom. 

“See you for dinner, Ash-kun,” she says, waving. Her accent adds another syllable to his name, even if he ignores the honorific; makes it sound kind of like a sneeze. It's the same way Eiji said it when it was still foreign on his tongue; the same way he still says it now, sometimes, when he's too tired to concentrate. Ash can't bring himself to mind.

“See you,” he answers as she disappears behind her door. He's still smiling when Eiji emerges from the kitchen, the smell of a home-cooked meal wafting into the living room after him. His sleeves are rolled up and he's fanning his red face with his hand.

“So hot in that kitchen,” he mutters under his breath and flops down onto the couch next to Ash. He deflates against the cushions with a heavy sigh, resting his head against the backrest, face tipped up to the ceiling. He closes his eyes.

Ash looks at him, gaze soft, admiring the color in his cheeks and the damp curl of his bangs against his forehead. He feels a tug at his heart, wanting so much to brush his hair out of his face to make room for a kiss.

Eiji's eyes open after a moment, his head lolling forward. He sees Mika’s bag, which she abandoned in the  _ genkan _ , and glares at it.

“So you met Mika,” he sighs, rubbing his forehead.

“Yep,” Ash chuckles. And he's glad he did, too.

Eiji groans, letting his head fall onto Ash's shoulder. “Isn't she terrible?”

Ash takes a moment to process Eiji's touch before tentatively resting his cheek on the top of Eiji's head. 

“No way,” he says earnestly, “Mika's great.” Sure, he only talked to her for a few minutes, but this is the first time since Eiji he's warmed up to someone so quickly. That's got to count for something.

“No,” Eiji huffs defiantly, burying his face in the crook of Ash's neck. “She left her bag in the  _ genkan _ . Again.”

Ash blushes, but angles his body toward Eiji, the arm he has slung over the back of the couch slowly coming down to rest over his shoulders. 

“With you around, it's like she has two moms,” he jokes,  _ this _ close to kissing the top of Eiji's head and yet not quite managing to. His hair smells like spice; like whatever he and Naoko-san have been cooking. Ash breathes in, smiling, sleepy but satisfied.

Eiji snorts. “She needs it,” he says, “Without me, she gets nothing done. Sleeps late, eats unhealthy food, leaves her things everywhere…” he trails off, and gasps.

“No wonder you like her,” he laughs, “she is just like you.”

Ash lightly pinches Eiji's shoulder, pretending to be more offended than he is. “So what, you gonna start being  _ my  _ mom, too?”

Eiji giggles softly, raising his head to look at Ash. 

“No,” he decides, pausing to chew his bottom lip. “To you, I want to be something else.”

Ash looks down at him, eyes opening wide in surprise and then wider in understanding. He swallows, suddenly acutely aware of how close their faces are; of just how easy it would be to lean down and kiss Eiji's lips. 

Eiji looks up at him, smiling demurely, cheeks red and almost begging Ash to put his hands on them; to pull him in.

...Maybe ‘easy’ isn't the right word.

Still, Ash finds himself slowly leaning in, testing the waters, attentive to every emotion passing over Eiji's features. Eiji keeps glancing between Ash's eyes and mouth, seemingly unsure where he wants to let his gaze settle. Ash's heartbeat pulses through the whole room, making the rest of the house drift away like leaves on rippling water. It's just him and -

“Eiji,“ he manages, just before the kitchen door swishes open and Naoko-san calls Mika for dinner.

Ash and Eiji immediately flinch away from each other, Ash’s face burning as he covers his mouth with a shaking hand. Eiji laughs too loud, standing up and fleeing to help set the table.

Ash's mind races, imaginary sirens blaring in his ears while bright red lights flash the word  _ DANGER _ behind his eyes, and at the center of all the overwhelming noise and neon stunning him from the inside out, his heart manages a foolhardy spark of excitement.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _No one even knows how hard life was_   
>  _I don't even think about it now because_   
>  __[I've finally found you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CFjqZpZZ5jI)   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> rip eiji's dad and me also
> 
> this took a little longer than expected so im sorry for the wait!! i hope it was worth it. im really excited to post this chapter because MIKA. I LOVE MIKA. PLEASE TALK TO ME ABOUT MIKA but also the fic in general BUT ALSO MIKA.
> 
> anyway see you guys in february probably??


	3. a little consultation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you know I gave him charm to find wife before he go to America?” she asks and folds her hands as if in prayer, bowing her head sagely. “From shrine!”
> 
> Ash sputters a laugh, dumbfounded. He vaguely remembers Eiji mentioning something about that back in New York. “You should get your money back,” he says wryly, “It didn't work.”
> 
> Mika gives him a sly look, resting her chin in her hands, humming impishly as she eyes him over. Her fingers tap playfully against her cheeks, a quiet drumroll building suspense. 
> 
> Ash gives her a look, dread pooling in his gut.
> 
> “Are you sure?” she asks, innocently batting her eyelashes.

Ash can't remember the last time he had a normal family dinner. 

Though he supposes the jury is still out over whether or not this can really be called ‘normal’. Right now, the jury is across from him at the dinner table, her little hand darting out to take the serving spoon from her son as she gently bullies him into taking his seat. Plates and bowls of savory side dishes form a moat between him and a happy family until Eiji circles around the table and flops down next to him.

Ash has been to more formal dinners than this and, by all accounts, Naoko-san  _ should _ be less intimidating than corrupt congressman and mob bosses, but there's still a familiar chill up Ash's spine reminding him that he has to be perfect. The novelty of a pretty, pale face is going to wear off soon, if it hasn't already, and Ash is determined to prove to Eiji's mom that he's worthy of all her son's kindness - and hers.

Dinner starts peacefully. Eiji coaches Ash through how to hold chopsticks properly with warm but stern fingers and Mika stretches her leg out under the table to kick Ash's shin whenever she wants his attention. Usually, it's so she can make a funny face at him or mockingly flap her hand open and shut in time with Eiji's long winded explanations of what they're eating, how it was prepared, and which side dishes he thinks Ash would like best.

Naoko-san watches them quietly from across the table, only opening her mouth to take small, graceful bites of rice and fish or to briefly chastise her children for shaking the table when they start mercilessly kicking each other underneath. Even though Ash is arguably more involved in the conversation than she is, he can't help but feel like the odd man out. 

“You guys can speak Japanese if you want,” he says, idly mixing rice and sauce together on his plate. “I don't mind.”

He can feel Eiji's eyes on him and deliberately doesn't look up from his food.

“Don’t worry, Ash-kun.  _ Kaa-chan _ needs to learn English,” Mika decides, patting her mother’s shoulder. Naoko-san tilts her head to one side, lost. After Mika translates for her, she offers a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

“I should learn Japanese,” he counters. “I'm a guest in your country.”

“I could teach you,” Eiji chimes in. “Mika, do you still have all the Japanese-English dictionaries I gave you after I started university?” He reaches across the table to hand his sister his plate.

Mika nods and takes it without question, getting up from her seat and shoveling some more rice onto his plate. 

“I still use them.” She offers it back to Eiji, who gives her a smug look.

“And your English is still bad,” he teases, moving to take back his plate, but his smile falls and his arm freezes when Naoko-san sets down her cup with just enough force to make a sound that grabs everyone's attention.

Aside from her son's name, Ash doesn't understand what she says next, but her eyes, formerly warm and soft, are now cold and hard. She doesn’t make eye contact with any of them when she speaks, examining her plate with a look that could turn the warm meal she prepared to ice.

Ash has to look away from her. He scans the Okumura siblings’ faces, trying to read a translation in the downward curl of their mouths. Eiji looks particularly affected, wringing his hands under the table while his family resumes eating in tense silence. Ash knows this much: Whatever Naoko-san just said, it can't be good. He’s too afraid to try and learn more.

  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  
  


Ash and Mika didn't help with dinner, so they're doing dishes; that's how it works in the Okumura household, and while Ash can't deny that it makes sense, he’d be lying if he said he was happy about it. Part of him wants to point out that he  _ did _ offer to lend a hand when Eiji and his mother first started cooking, which should count for  _ something _ , but he gives up on the idea about the same time Eiji presses a dish towel into his hands and skips down the hall to take a bath. He decides it's just as well. He's an imposition here no matter what, but he can at least try to pull his weight. Besides, he should be grateful that nowadays, getting his hands dirty just means doing housework instead of, well - 

Whatever. Another life.

“You wash,” Mika instructs, steering him toward the sink by the shoulders and plucking the dish towel from his hands, “I dry and put away.”

Ash narrows his eyes at the stacks of dirty plates and pans lining the counter. Dinner was delicious, but scraping soggy food residue off of the dishes is decidedly less so. 

“Why do I have to do the gross part?” he laments, but rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie anyway. 

Mika sticks her tongue out at him. In that moment, she looks like Eiji, and it's a little hard to be mad at her. 

“Because I know where things go,” she says as Ash picks up a plate and runs it under warm water. 

She hops up onto the counter and leisurely watches Ash work, nodding encouragingly when he glances up at her. Once the plates are washed and dried, Mika stacks them again and carefully slides them into the cupboard by Ash's head. Between drying the dishes and putting them away, Mika only works for a grand total of five seconds at a time. Ash makes a mental note to switch places with her next time as he starts scrubbing debris out of a pan.

“You do such good job,” Mika praises, perched on the counter once again, and Ash can't tell if she means it, or if she's just taking the piss. Either way, he finds himself smiling as he works.

He's so focused on scraping off a particularly stubborn piece of charred  _ something _ that he almost misses it when, after a while, she says his name.

“Hm?” he prompts, face scrunching in determination. The debris flakes off, bit by bit.

“Do you want to know what she said?”

“What?” Ash asks absently, then stops. Sets down the pan in the sink. Turns to her, confused. “What who said?”

“ _ Kaa-chan _ ,” Mika says, watching her legs dangle idly off the counter. Her gaze is soft, but focused, like she's looking through her legs instead of at them. Ash wonders where the girl that stuck her tongue out at him just five minutes before went.

He swallows, tightening his grip on the sponge in his hand, soapy water running over his knuckles and down the drain. “What did she say?”

Mika tilts her head contemplatively, looking away.

“‘We couldn't all go away to America like you,’” she echoes sternly, lifting a hand and drawing a long arch in the air, and somehow Ash knows she means the flight path of an airplane. After a moment, she sighs. “I think she hurts,” she pats her chest, “Here.”

“Oh,” Ash says, voice and heart heavy. If Naoko-san is mad at Eiji for leaving, she must be  _ furious _ at Ash for keeping him away for so long. He drums his fingers on the edge of the sink, wanting to apologize, but not sure where to begin.

“It is - weird,” Mika says, rocking back and forth. “For long time, I hated you. Before.”

Ash laughs at her honesty, but can't help the bitterness rising in his hollow chest. She's not the only one. He risks a glance up at her and finds that she looks normal - not angry, not sad. Like she's talking about the weather. 

But she's not looking at him.

“It was like you,” she pauses, brow furrowing. She reaches for something imaginary and pulls it close to her chest, clutching it in her fists, eyes asking him for a reaction. “Like you take him away? Yes?”

Ash nods in understanding. She nods back, satisfied she got her point across, then huffs.

“He wrote me only one time from America,” she presses on, annoyed. “And it was all about Ash-kun. You and your danger. It - “

She trails off into a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose. “English,” she grumbles.

“It's okay,” Ash says softly, trying to be kind. “Take your time.”

Mika nods, but doesn't look any less frustrated. She pauses, holding her head in her hands, wilted but tense. 

“He goes to New York,” she says, voice slow and tight, like she  _ could _ yell, but doesn't want to make a scene, “for two year. And comes back in - in - ” 

Her hands frame her sides and move; she's pantomiming again, and at first Ash thinks it looks like she's rowing, but soon he turns his face down to the floor in grim realization of the truth.

“Wheelchair,” he supplies quietly.

“Yes,” Mika shouts, fist slamming against the counter, seemingly both in triumph and anger. “First, you take him away. Then he is home, but still…” she trails off, waving a hand over her miserable face, “gone.” She bites her bottom lip. “And our father still is dead. And Eiji cries for you. Every night. And I think, ‘Ash-kun's fault.’”

Ash bows his head further, ashamed that he took Eiji from her - from their family - and ashamed that he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

“You're right, Mika. I'm so sorry,” he says solemnly, watching the faucet drip. 

“Wait,” she blurts hastily, “ I - I thinked this before? But not now.”

Ash glances up, meeting her uncertain eyes. Her cheeks are red and she's wringing her hands, and suddenly she's the same Mika that poked him in the shoulder with her lacrosse stick earlier that evening. He raises his head, hopeful.

“Eiji cries for you,” she continues, “Every night after coming from America. He thinks I do not hear. But one night, he comed -  _ came _ \- to my room. He felt so alone. And we talked about America and Ash-kun. And I understood how happy you make him and I can't hate you anymore.” She bites her lip in uncertainty. “I think he was in danger with you, but he now is - more ‘Eiji’?”

She looks to Ash for approval that he feels unqualified to give.

He flushes, confused and flattered and still sort of sorry. He taps his fist against the edge of the counter, casually glancing around the kitchen; anywhere but at Mika.

She stretches out her leg and pokes him in the thigh with her toe. “You are good for Eiji,” she says decisively, as if sensing his insecurities. She's Eiji's little sister, alright.

Ash finally manages to look at her, still unsure. 

She grins, eyes glinting with mischief. He manages a tentative smile back.

“Did you know I gave him charm to find wife before he go to America?” she asks and folds her hands as if in prayer, bowing her head sagely. “From shrine!”

Ash sputters a laugh, dumbfounded. He vaguely remembers Eiji mentioning something about that back in New York. “You should get your money back,” he says wryly, “It didn't work.”

Mika gives him a sly look, resting her chin in her hands, humming impishly as she eyes him over. Her fingers tap playfully against her cheeks, a quiet drumroll building suspense. 

Ash gives her a look, dread pooling in his gut.

“Are you sure?” she asks, innocently batting her eyelashes.

Ash drops the sponge. It splats against the bottom of the sink.

Reducing him to a blushing, stuttering mess seems to be a hereditary Okumura talent. He marches over to her and swipes the dish towel from her lap, trying and failing to ignore her cackling.

“Alright,” he snaps, “how ‘bout  _ you _ try and scrub that pan clean and  _ I  _ lounge on the counter being a fucking comedian?” but either Mika has thicker skin than the entirety of Ash's former gang, or he's  _ really _ lost his edge since leaving New York.

She raises her hands to shield herself from his wrath, giggling maniacally. The sound is infectious and Ash grins without wanting to. Seeing an opportunity, he drops the dish towel so he can grab her wrists with one hand and give her a righteous noogie with the other.

“What now?” he goads as she squeals and tries to wiggle out of his grasp to no avail. His fist grinds into the top of her head hard and fast, like he's trying to start a fire in her hair with the friction.

“ _ Stop _ ,” she shrieks, seeming both delighted and terrorized, and finally Ash feels like he understands what it's like to be an older sibling. “I'm telling Eiji!”

“Oh yeah?” Ash challenges, finally releasing her wrists only to reach around her middle and lift her up off the counter. She yelps, kicking her legs and twisting violently like a crocodile doing death rolls. Ash slings her over his shoulder with a grunt, arms wrapped securely around her legs, both so she can't kick and so she can't fall, but that doesn't stop her from pummeling the small of his back with her fists.

“Put me down,” she cries, “or I use my special move!”

Ash scoffs, waltzing around the kitchen with her slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, just because he can. The words, “ _ What _ special move?” are barely out of his mouth when Mika raises her upper body and jabs her wiggling fingers into his armpits.

She makes a string of cooing noises like she's tickling a baby and Ash nearly topples over with laughter. 

“You are  _ so _ dead,” he threatens, just as Eiji whips the kitchen door open.

“You two!” Eiji barks, pointing an accusatory finger at the pile of unwashed dishes by the sink, like he knew it would be there before he even came in. “I told you to clean!”

Ash's palms immediately start sweating and his knees go weak. Eiji has just emerged from the bath, it seems, and he's dressed in nothing but a blue towel, wrapped loosely around his waist. His hair is still dripping, inky black strands sticking to his forehead and pink, dewy cheeks. One particular drop of water follows the curve of his jaw and trickles down his neck all the way to his collarbone. Ash traces its path with his eyes.

A sharp ache in his shoulder from Mika's weight snaps him out of his daze, and he thinks - a little guiltily - about how wonderful it would be for the Okumura siblings to switch places right now. About sweeping Eiji off his feet and into Ash's arms, backing him up against a wall, maybe - 

He adjusts his hold on Mika, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I am,” he says, patting the back of her thigh, “I'm taking out the trash.”

Mika squawks, pounding him in the back. “Stupid wife charm,” she wails in despair.

Eiji blinks and bristles, nostrils flaring. “Go to your room, Mika,” he commands, jabbing an angry finger in the direction of the door.

Ash sets her down obediently, but not without sticking his tongue out at her. She gives him the finger. He cracks his knuckles threateningly. She rolls up her sleeves.

“ _ Now _ ,” Eiji shouts before things escalate further.

Mika rolls her eyes, but does as she's told. “ _ Now _ ,” she parrots in an unflattering imitation of Eiji's voice as she trudges out of the kitchen. 

Eiji slams the door behind her with a loud huff, but freezes when his mother shouts something that sounds like scolding from down the hall. He takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I miss when we had our own place,” he says quietly.

Ash rubs the back of his neck, not sure how that makes him feel. It’s not that the idea of having a little privacy doesn't appeal to him, it's just, well - 

It's easier not to get wrapped up in lovesick pining when there are other people - even people who might not ever forgive him for what he did to their son - around to distract him. 

“It's not so bad,” Ash says reasonably, leaning back against the counter and staring at Eiji's belly-button. It's an outie. Did Ash already know that? Suddenly he can't remember. He blushes and looks away.

Eiji sighs. “I know,” he concedes, joining Ash by the counter, “I am happy to be back. I just…” he trails off, thinking and looking at the floor. Now that he's closer, Ash can smell the citrusy shampoo in his hair; can feel the lingering warmth of the bath radiating off him. He stares straight ahead, studying the door, but there's still too much almond-milk skin in his peripheral vision.

“There were times,” Eiji continues, a little hesitantly, “when it was nice.” Ash feels Eiji nudge him with his shoulder, a bloom of warmth flourishing on the part of his upper arm Eiji touches. “When it was just us.”

Ash feels his heart squeeze. Near-constant threats of gang violence aside, yeah. Yeah, it was nice. Yeah, Ash liked coming home to Eiji's sometimes dubious cooking and, yeah, he liked staying up late talking about everything and nothing over lukewarm cans of beer. He liked bumping elbows with Eiji when they brushed their teeth in the bathroom they shared. He liked that Eiji converted their walk-in closet into a makeshift darkroom. He liked watching Eiji develop photos in it. More than anything, he liked having Eiji to himself; all to himself, all the time.

He wonders, a little wishfully, maybe, if Eiji feels the same way.

He thinks about their encounter on the sofa earlier. As subtley as he can manage - subtley enough that he can convince himself it’s not deliberate - he inches closer. Eiji's shoulder is pressed hot against his upper arm.

“Yeah,” Ash agrees casually, hoping his blush doesn't look as obvious as it feels. “Yeah, that part...that part was nice.”

Something cold and wet bumps Ash's shoulder, and his heart lurches when he discovers that it's Eiji's head. Ash blushes. Eiji's eyes are closed, lashes dotted with dewy droplets of lingering bath water.

“You're getting my shirt wet,” Ash mumbles. He always feels like he has to shy away from intimacy - even from Eiji - on principle; at least at first. It's an echo of a mantra he used to repeat to himself back in New York;  _ Don't get too close, it can never last. _ When he thinks about it, it’s not really necessary anymore, now that they don't have to worry about Dino or Foxx or Yut-Lung, but old habits die hard.

Eiji’s hands find Ash's bicep, hugging his arm to his bare chest. He doesn't seem to have a problem adjusting to their freedom.

“I'm cold,” he says, and even though it's probably true, Ash realizes that it's mostly just an excuse.

Tentatively, he rests his cheek on the top of Eiji's head, not caring that his skin is getting damp. 

“Okay,” he says quietly as Eiji's hand slides into his. He holds it gently, treasures this moment. Maybe sometimes he still has Eiji to himself, after all. Maybe he wants Eiji to have him all to himself, too.

  
  


 

* * *

 

  
  


After brushing his teeth and scrubbing all the dried sweat and grime that accumulated over the past day of travel and excitement out of his pores in a long, indulgent shower, Ash slips into a clean t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms and shakes lingering water out of his hair. The smell of the detergent he and Eiji used to share still on his clothes coupled with that of the towel Eiji gave him 20 minutes earlier make his head dizzy with both familiarity and foreignness. He presses his face into the soft towel, taking a deep breath in and imagining he's holding Eiji before remembering himself and flinging it onto the towel rack with a flush on his face that has little to do with the warm steam fogging his flustered reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“Ash-kun?” Mika calls from outside, startling him. “You are finish?”

Ash takes a moment to compose himself and opens the door in lieu of a reply, sliding past her awkwardly. She slips into the bathroom, tying her hair back in a short ponytail before reaching for her toothbrush.

“ _ Oyasumi _ ,” she says pleasantly as she pops open a tube of toothpaste, “‘Goodnight.’”

Ash smiles. “ _ Oyasumi _ ,” he returns as she squeezes some of it onto her toothbrush and shoves it into her mouth with a satisfied grin.

He shuffles down the hall to his room - the  _ guest _ room - only to find Eiji dressing a thin mattress with a fluffy duvet that Ash can't wait to curl up under. Eiji smiles when he notices him, sitting down on it and patting the space next to him. Ash wastes no time flopping down at his side, sighing in relief at being off his feet after such a long day.

Eiji tuts lightly and lifts a hand up to his hair, fingers flirting with the damp strands. “Your hair is still wet,” he observes, “You could get sick. It is a cold night.”

“I'm too tired to dry it,” Ash says, though Eiji's touch has a strangely electrifying effect on him that almost cancels out his jet lag.

Eiji hums, dissatisfied, tucking some of Ash's hair behind his ear. Ash feels a pang of longing in his heart. It's not enough, these fleeting touches. It'll never be enough. But he'll take what he can get, closing his eyes and focusing on the feeling of Eiji's fingers brushing the shell of his ear.

“You have had a long day,” Eiji says, hand sliding to the back of Ash's neck and pulling him in until Ash's head falls onto his shoulder. “But you did well with everything. I know it is a lot to get used to.”

“Mm,” Ash hums noncommittally, not trusting himself with words right now, Eiji’s praise giving him butterflies. He just got out of the shower and already he's starting to feel sweaty.

Eiji fidgets a little. “Do you,” he pauses to clear his throat, “like my family?”

Ash’s head snaps up. “Of course I do,” he rushes out.  _ The question is whether they like  _ me. 

Mika seems to, though Ash wouldn't be surprised if she wasn't as ‘over’ everything as she claimed to be while they were washing dishes. And his standing with Naoko-san beyond ‘temporary house guest’ is still a complete mystery. He doesn’t know if she'll ever confront him about it directly, but who knows what kind of grievances she has to air.

Ash would have a lot, if he were in her shoes. Too many to count. Maybe even too many to forgive. He wonders if Eiji is going to talk about what she said at dinner.

“I'm glad,” Eiji says instead, nudging Ash's shoulder with his own. “Now Mika has someone to bother besides me.”

Ash grins. “She doesn't bother me.”

Eiji pats his leg. “Give it time.”

Ash chuckles.

A silence follows. Ash picks at a loose thread on his pants, thinking.

“I wish I could have met your father,” he finds himself saying quietly, the desire not even fully formed until he speaks it into being.

Eiji says nothing for a moment, fingers stilling in Ash's hair. He sighs. 

“He would have liked you,” he says, wistful, “I wish I could have told him about us.”

Ash's pulse flutters. “Us?”

Eiji glances away, getting red. Ash desperately resists the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake an explanation out of him. 

“I was kind of shy in school,” Eiji starts to explain, tugging at his earlobe. “I had some friends from my team, but we were never close. When I got injured, we stopped seeing each other.” His gaze softens as he stares off into space, looking at something in the room and yet, somehow, at something far away.

Ash frowns. The fact that Eiji wasn't surrounded by friends all his life makes no sense to him. 

“I never had a best friend until Ash,” Eiji goes on, smiling crookedly and looking down so his bangs hide his eyes. “I never had anything like what we have.”

Ash's breath hitches, his palms sweaty and dampening his flannel pants. His mind reels.

There was that girl he knew, years ago. Marlie.  Ash used to buy her ice cream on her way home from school at that little shop in Greenwich Village. Sometimes he'd help her with her homework in their favorite booth. Sometimes they'd hold hands under the table, not letting go even when their knuckles brushed old gum. She was pretty and sweet and her hands were always soft. But the crush Ash had on her was just that: a crush. She didn't live long enough for it to become anything more.

What he feels now can't be contained by a single word. He's known that for a while.

_ What  _ do  _ we have, Eiji? _ he wants to ask, but he's scared of the answer.  _ What exactly am I to you?  _

Even “best friends” seems too trivial a term for them. Ash feels like he has to invent a new language to explain just how much he loves Eiji.

“Me neither,” he says instead, not lying but not telling the whole truth.

Eiji nods briskly, red but satisfied. “Well,” he grunts, standing up, “I'm sure you are tired. I will let you sleep.”

Immediately Ash feels hollow, the loss of Eiji's warmth at his side leaving him with goosebumps. 

“Oh, yeah,” he mutters, sounding more disappointed than he meant to. He clears his throat.

Eiji shuffles to the door to leave, but stops just before slipping into the hallway and turns around. 

“You remember where my room is?” he asks over his shoulder.

“Across the hall, right?”

Eiji nods. “If you need anything at all,” he tells Ash, dark eyes looking right at him; into him, “come to me.”

Ash swallows, trying not to misinterpret his words as an offer for some kind of late-night lover's tryst and failing. Eiji's gaze stays fixed on him, soft but meaningful.

“Okay,” Ash says, maybe a little too eagerly.

If Eiji notices, he doesn't seem to mind, smiling warmly. He flips the light switch, plunging Ash into darkness, and disappears on the other side of the door with a hushed, “ _ Oyasumi _ .”

Ash sees the light filtering in from the hall flick off, listens to Eiji's footsteps fade into his room.

He collapses against his  _ futon _ , letting out a deep breath, trying to lull himself back into the exhausted state he was in before his talk with Eiji. He stares blindly upwards until his eyes adjust to the dark and he can make out patterns in the ceiling. He follows them with his gaze idly, soundlessly drumming his fingers against his stomach. He waits for a break in the silence of the room.

When it doesn't come, he rolls onto his side, listening more closely. If he concentrates, he thinks he can hear wind rustling the trees outside, but the sound is so faint he can't be sure he's not making it up. There are no creaking floorboards or pipes or mattresses to speak of, either. Nothing. For a house with literal paper walls, it does a great job of blocking out noise. Or maybe there's no noise to begin with. Maybe Izumo is just that quiet.

He scrubs a hand over his face and shifts against the futon, trying to relax, but with no sound to guide it on the path to sleep, his mind wanders.

It's been a tough couple of weeks without Eiji. A lot of restless days and sleepless nights. He thought coming to Japan might help, but he wasn't expecting it to be so fucking  _ quiet _ , and he wasn't expecting it to be so hard to sleep in a room by himself. He and Eiji spent so long sharing one. At least the hospital had humming electrical equipment to keep him company at night, and after he was released he stayed with Max and got to listen to him snore. 

Now there's nothing.

He needs to hear cars cruise down fifth avenue as they cast moving lights on his ceiling. He needs to hear Eiji's steady breathing and the rustling of sheets when he moves, his little mumbles when he's dreaming something sweet. 

He misses New York, even though he spent all his time there wishing he were somewhere else. He misses Eiji, even though he's right across the hall. He misses white noise drowning out his thoughts, even though he should be grateful that things are finally quiet; calm. He knows he shouldn't, but he even misses the comatose state he was in at the hospital. At least then he didn't have to think.

He's always  _ thinking _ . It's what's kept him alive through all the sex and violence. Now he thinks it might be what kills him.

_ He cries for you _ , Mika said.  _ He thinks I do not hear. _

Ash is disgusted by himself for it, but he almost wishes he could hear Eiji sniffing from the other room. At least that would give him an excuse to go see him, to put his arm around him and say,  _ I’m sorry about what I put you through. I'm sorry about your dad. I'm sorry I can't help but depend on you, even now. _

He yanks his pillow out from under his head and clutches it to his chest.

_ If you need anything at all, come to me. _

Eiji doesn't lie; not when it comes to things like this. Despite all his insecurities, Ash refuses to not believe in Eiji. Eiji cares for him. He knows that. He feels that.

But that just makes Ash feel shittier for causing him problems all the time; even now, after everything they've been through. And for what? Because he needs a bedtime story? A fucking lullaby?

Ash could ask for both and Eiji would give it to him. It breaks and mends his heart in an endless loop.

He wonders if Eiji's okay. If he still thinks about New York. If he misses Ash, too, even though they're so close.

Ash sits up, still hugging his pillow. He stares over his shoulder and through the dark at the faint outline of the door. He feels a tug at his heart. Unthinking, he stands up and walks. His hand reaches for the door and opens it.

Eiji is standing a few feet away, one foot out of his own half-open door. He doesn't startle when he sees Ash, but bites his bottom lip as he steps into the hallway. Ash thinks Eiji will stop there, but he doesn't. He keeps walking forward until the tips of his socked feet almost touch Ash's bare ones, looks up, and takes his hand.

“I missed you,” he whispers, “but you are here. It is silly, but - “

“It's not silly.” Ash squeezes Eiji's hand, bringing it up to rest over his fluttering heart. “I get it.”

Eiji smiles. Even in the dark with his face in shades of gray, it's blinding. He takes a step backwards, tugging on Ash's hand.

“Come to me,” he says, voice hushed.

Ash follows.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _i called up the moon_  
>  _for_ [a little consultation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b8RXwy_inBs)  
>  _yes you know that i'm a happy man_  
>  _but somethin' in me's burning_
> 
> sorry this took longer than expected, things are a little crazy right now. i have mixed feelings about how this chapter turned out, but i hope it was semi worth the wait

**Author's Note:**

>  _All the living are dead, and the dead are all living_  
>  _The war is over and_ [we are beginning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c5qx_ZMY7tU)  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> i wish you happy healing, banana fish fandom. i hope this fic helps.
> 
> anyway, i did my best to stay true to the original manga timeline, but there may still be some mistakes so please be patient with me in that regard.
> 
> you can follow me on social media here if you want:
> 
> [main blog](http://eijier.tumblr.com//)   
>  [art blog](http://luftballons99.tumblr.com/)   
>  [twitter](https://twitter.com/waldmotel)


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